


You Know What To Do

by myshkins



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Each chapter will be from the perspective of one of the main characters, Friendship, Gen, I'll be adding characters as I go, Light Angst, Not just the Beatles, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, There is mention of Brian's death, but also people in their circle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myshkins/pseuds/myshkins
Summary: It's fall of 1968, and the White Album sessions are tense. So tense that Paul is considering leaving the band.That is, until he has a brilliant idea for saving the group and his three most important friendships. But will John, George, and Ringo ever agree to such a wild plan?





	1. Paul

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter was originally part of a fic I began way back in 2007 and never finished. Those were the days when people still used LiveJournal, and the Beatles fandom thrived there (If any of you were around then, my LJ name was isat_belonely). This fic originally began as some self-insert sci-fi time-travel silliness. I decided to take what I wrote 11 years ago and transform it into the basis of an AU in which The Beatles are on the verge of breaking up, and Paul comes up with a crazy scheme to save the day. Don't we all just love Paul's crazy ideas? Sgt. Pepper, anyone? Magical Mystery Tour? Anyway, thanks for reading.

_Abbey Road Studios, London. October 1, 1968. 1:03 AM._

“What’re you talking about?”

Paul stood, visibly bristling, as John glared at him through round wire-rimmed glasses.

“Your part is off,” John repeated. Paul’s eyebrows furrowed and he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“Let’s hear you do it, then,” he said, trying his utmost not to sound annoyed. John obliged, plucking the bass melody on his own guitar while Paul listened, deeply chagrined.

“It’s not so hard, Macca,” John said, wearing a caustic half-sneer and rocking back and forth in time as he played.

“That wasn’t the rhythm we agreed on,” Paul protested.

“Well, that’s the rhythm we’re doing. George and I _agreed_ that it’s better this way.”

The knowledge that John and George had conferred about him stung Paul. He looked over at George. He was watching the argument with his brows furrowed in distaste, cross-legged in a chair and tuning his guitar. Obviously not wanting to get involved, he offered no comment on the ensuing row. Ringo sat at his kit lighting up a cigarette, trying to tune out his bandmates.

The mood within the group had been worsening over the past few weeks. Now, for Paul, at least, the matter seemed dire. Recording for what would become the White Album was painful for everyone involved. Most of the sessions had gradually become solitary and disjointed, with the members of the group scattered around several studios at Abbey Road. Songs were recorded separately, with the four coming together only when absolutely necessary. Tonight, Paul had suggested that they try recording together again, and had been met with dubious assent by the others. He was beginning to regret his suggestion.

George Martin’s clipped voice resounded from the control room.

“Shall we try that again, boys?”

“Yeah, we’ll give it another go,” John said, glancing over at Paul, a look of heavy-lidded annoyance in his eyes. Then his focus strayed to the diminutive woman sitting on the amplifier next to him. Yoko smiled slightly as John whispered something into her ear. Her face lit up in surprise, and she covered her mouth with her hand and giggled silently. Paul sighed and adjusted his guitar strap’s position on his right shoulder.

Martin's voice sounded once again. “All right…take seventeen.” George uncrossed his legs and tested his guitar’s sound. Deciding it was still properly tuned, he readied for the beginning of the song. Ringo nodded and took up his sticks. John adjusted the microphone slightly before counting off…

_Hey, Bungalow Bill_

_What did you kill_

_Bungalow Bill?_

_He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun_

_In case of accidents he always took his mom—_

John stopped abruptly and looked at Paul.

“Bloody hell, Paul, what are you playing?” John asked in the biting, impertinent deadpan he used when he was exasperated. He had been using that tone much more frequently lately. George swore inwardly at John’s outburst and sighed audibly, and Paul’s face reddened with anger and embarrassment. He threw his hands up in surrender.

“Look, I’m doing what I thought you asked for. Just play the fucking part yourself or have George play it if you’re having such a big problem with me.” Paul put down his guitar and picked up his coat from a nearby stool. “I can’t be here anymore,” he said, not looking at any of them as he put on his coat and strode out of the studio. His three mates and Yoko watched him go, then blinked at each other in disbelief.

“I suppose that’s enough for tonight,” Martin intoned wearily over the speaker. “We obviously won’t get anything more done.”

 

*

 

Paul stepped through the front door of the studio into the unusually cool night, guessing it was about one o’clock. He hadn’t made note of the time since he had arrived to work that evening. He had come to work on foot. His house was only two streets away, and he met only a few people on the way, none of whom paid him any mind. Paul had picked the house mostly for its location near the studio. Now he wondered with a pang whether its proximity to Abbey Road would even matter in the future.

He considered leaving the group. This thought had occurred to him only a few times during the past few weeks, and each time he felt his chest constrict at the prospect. He was fairly sure the others had thought about it, too. How could they not have, with all of the tension between them? Geoff Emerick, their recording engineer, had already quit because of it. He didn't exactly say why, but Paul had sensed right away that the toxic atmosphere of the studio was to blame. Still, he wanted desperately for the album to come together and for things to be smoothed over between the four of them. But it was beginning to feel as though he was the only one who did. _Could this be the end?_ The question continued to plague him. He answered it under his breath: “This could be the end.”

Paul sighed heavily as he walked up to 7 Cavendish Avenue. Two determined gatebirds stood vigil by the front gate of the house.

“Up a bit late, aren’t you?” Paul asked the girls as he approached. He tried to sound cheerful and failed horrendously.

“We’ve only been here a few hours,” a tall blonde girl chirped. Paul had seen her there before, but couldn’t remember her name. The brunette standing next to her flushed brightly with pleasure and looked as though she might leap onto her idol, who stood but a few feet from her.

“Really, you shouldn’t be out here this late,” Paul said brusquely as he hurried past them into the yard. He usually tried to say a few kind words to the young women who would stand by his gate at all hours of the day, but small talk was currently beyond him. He trudged into the house to be greeted by a behemoth of a sheep dog. Martha leaped onto him, pinning him to the door with her massive paws.

“Nooo, nonono. Down! Get down, girl.” Paul pointed sternly to the floor, and Martha sat, looking miffed that her owner’s arrival had not been accompanied by that of a biscuit. Paul made his way up the stairs and into his bedroom and realized for the first time how exhausted he was. He flopped onto the side of his bed and undressed, unable to direct his mind away from what had occurred at the studio. _Why does John have to be such a prick?_ _He must be able to see that I’m trying harder than the others. Isn’t that more than enough? And George just sits there brooding. I wish he’d actually come right out and yell at me. At least I’d know where we stand._ _And Ringo doesn’t say it, but I know that he hates what’s going on as much as I do. He’s just trying to keep out of it_. Paul, finally undressed except for his underwear, got comfortable under the covers and turned out his bedside lamp. He tried to turn off his mind as well, but thoughts kept waltzing in and out of his consciousness, preventing him from drifting off. After about twenty minutes of tossing and turning, the telephone jangled in the next room.

_Shit._

Paul wandered to the phone in the dark and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Are you coming back to the studio tomorrow?” It was George. Paul exhaled slowly, a feeling of despair washing over him once again. He opened his mouth to respond, but George continued.

“We can finish the song without you.” It wasn’t a threat—just a simple statement. And it was true. Paul knew that they could go without him for a day. Perhaps a lot longer. But that wasn’t what concerned him. He thought back to tonight’s row.

“Does John want me there?” Paul asked. His voice struck him as small. Strained.

“I think he needs to cool off a bit. We all do, really.” Paul was grateful for the barely perceptible warmth in George’s voice. Still, there was one question he desperately wanted to ask, but knew he wouldn’t. _Do you any of you want me to come back?_ To his intense embarrassment, he felt tears stinging his eyes, as they had done when he stormed out of the studio. _Please ask me to come back._

But George didn’t say anything. Paul gave a shaky sigh.

“I don’t think I can come back tomorrow. I need to think. I need to…be away for a bit.”

“All right. I’ll tell them.” George paused, as though he wanted to say more. Paul waited.

“Okay, see you.”

“See you, George.”

 _Click._  

Paul set down the receiver and went back to bed. The oppressive silence of his bedroom made his thoughts louder. Thoughts turned into vivid flashes of a potential and terrible future: the band irrevocably falls apart, the album is scrapped, millions of fans are crushed, Paul’s musical career comes to an unceremonious halt, and all four Beatles fade into obscurity. Paul loses his three closest friends.

Similar scenarios played through Paul’s mind until he finally slipped into a half-sleep.

 


	2. Pattie

 

 

_Kinfauns, Esher, Surrey. October 3, 1968. 10:05 AM._

 

 Pattie had just stepped out of the shower when the telephone rang.

“George, can you get it?”

No answer.

“George?”

Once again met only with silence, Pattie sighed, towel wrapped haphazardly around her, and ran to pick up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Pattie, it’s Paul.” 

“Oh, hello, Paul. All right?”

“Yeah. Well, better than the other day, anyway. I reckon George told you about the row?”

He had. George had kept his wife apprised of nearly all of the group’s problems lately, and, as it turned out, Paul had been the main target of George’s complaints. Pattie had heard George speak several times about Paul’s need to be in control in the studio, his stubbornness, his insistence that he was in the right. While Pattie knew that George had reason to be frustrated, she, having known Paul for several years now, sensed that his intentions were inherently good. She had said this to George, who had seemed to agree with her at the time, but very soon thereafter lapsed back into grumbling. Remembering her conversations with her husband, Pattie felt a twinge of pity for Paul.

“He did mention it. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I actually have something I’d like to discuss with George. Is he around?”

“Yes, shall I get him?”

“Yeah, but in a moment.” He paused. “Pattie, can I ask you a favor?” Pattie heard a note of earnest appeal in his voice that made her hesitate. Something told her that this favor had to do with her husband.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I want all four of us to meet and talk about something. An idea I had. I know that George isn’t going to like it. And possibly the others won’t, either. But it’s really important to me, because…” Paul stopped, as though collecting himself. “Because I’m afraid the future of the band is at stake. And I feel like I need to do something about it. Something a little daft, even.”

“What do you mean?” Pattie asked, feeling a little uneasy.  

“I can’t tell you yet. Not until I’ve told them. But don’t worry, it’s not totally mad. I think it could really change things for us. I just need them to hear me out.”

“I’m not sure how I can help with that.”

“Just talk to George about it. Try to get him to see my side. You’re his wife. He respects your opinion. I only want what’s best for the band. I think if I can win him over, then the others will be more open to it.” Paul’s voice was hopeful, but it had an insistence that Pattie had never heard before.

“I can try. But you know that I can’t promise anything. You know what George is like. If he’s determined not to like something, there’s rarely any changing his mind.”

“I know. But still, I have to try. Thank you, Pattie. You’re a brick,” Paul said, already sounding relieved. “Can I speak to him now?”

“Of course. I’ll go get him.”

Pattie found her husband sitting outside by the pool with an acoustic guitar. He was staring straight ahead and slowly strumming chords with a focused intensity. Pattie heard him sing snatches of a melody, but she could not make out any of the words. She loved finding him like this—catching him in the creative act. Watching him write when he was not aware that he was being watched. There was a serenity in his demeanor in those moments that left Pattie feeling as though they were still newlyweds on their honeymoon in Barbados. That there was still a part of George that remained a mystery to her. As Pattie approached him, he stopped strumming and made a note of something in a leather-bound notebook.

“Paul’s on the phone for you,” Pattie said. “I think it’s important.”

George’s serene mien dissipated, and was replaced with tense posture and a frown.

 “Did he say what it’s about?”

 “No, he just seems serious.”

 

*

 About half an hour later, Pattie had put on a full face of makeup and gotten dressed for a day out in London with her sister, Jenny. When she came down the stairs, she saw that George had lit up a joint. He sat on one of the large cushions that took the place of chairs in their living room. There was a distant look in his eyes. Before Pattie could ask, George spoke up in a flat tone, looking up at her from the cushion.

 “Paul wants all of us to meet here tomorrow.”

 “What for?”

“To talk. He says he has to talk to us all together, but he won’t say what about. But it must be something to do with the group. How we’re not collaborating, how when we play together, it just feels like total shit. And I bet he has some sort of big idea, y’know, the kind that he gets and just expects all of us to follow without question.”

 Pattie’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“What makes you say that?” Pattie asked casually. She sat down next to him, took the joint, and gave it a puff.

 “It’s what he always does. That’s what happened after Brian died. We were all thinking ‘Shit. Brian’s gone. What now?’ We dealt with it in different ways. Paul’s way was to decide that we needed a film project, and to make it his baby, to throw himself into it and bring us along for the ride. Like he was trying to fill Brian’s shoes.” George paused, seemingly lost in thought.

 Pattie remembered that difficult time the previous year. She had been with The Beatles in Bangor with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi when they had heard the news of his passing. Everyone had taken it hard and they had all been in varying levels of shock. One memory in particular came to Pattie’s mind at this moment. About an hour after they had been informed, she had been walking down the hallway of the dormitory their group was staying in for the conference. She had unexpectedly come upon Paul, who was emerging from his room. His eyes were red, and he had obviously been crying. Pattie, moved by his tears, yet unable to offer any words of comfort at that moment, embraced him. She remembered that Paul seemed to cling to her with a surprising urgency. They stood like that for a few moments until Paul pulled away with a look on his face that somehow conveyed embarrassment, gratitude, and grief all at once. That moment had brought Pattie more emotionally close to Paul than she had ever been before. Recalling that memory and her conversation with him on the phone, Pattie spoke up.

“Whatever Paul has in mind, I’m sure his intentions are good. Maybe you should try to keep an open mind. It may not be what you think,” she said, resting her hand on George’s arm and looking into his eyes. But his gaze had that stormy look that signified he was not about to let this go.

 “I’ll listen to what he has to say, but if he tries to manage us, I’m not having any part in it,” he said, and Pattie knew there would be no more discussion of the matter. She kissed her husband and went outside to her car, accompanied by a feeling of vague foreboding.

 

 


End file.
